


Mute

by BunnieBard



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Family, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-23
Updated: 2017-02-23
Packaged: 2018-09-26 09:57:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9884921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BunnieBard/pseuds/BunnieBard
Summary: You have a cold, but are determined to get through it without Mom finding out.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This was one of those, "Man I want to read a story that goes exactly like THIS... wait... I suddenly have a complete thing written in my head" moments. Fun!

You have nothing to tell Mom. Really, you don't. Sure, drinking your milk this morning felt a little strange and you chewed your toast a little extra so it would go past the tickle in your throat easier, but it was nothing to fuss about. Nothing to worry her about. It might very well amount to nothing by tomorrow.

You don't need to tell Mom. It would worry her, and you don't want to worry her about something like this again. You work your way through the day uncomfortable, but not unbearable. You take a little less at dinner and nobody notices.

You are not going to tell Mom. You heard the story bit by bit from the monsters in New Home. You know well what happened to the last human to fall prey to something like this, and you know what it did to Mom. You keep your face straight despite the pressure in your head. You screw up once when you inhale too hard trying to clear your nose and send yourself into a coughing fit. It lasts far longer than it should and Mom frets, but after the glass of water she brings you is mostly consumed you convince her that it was just something down the wrong pipe and both of you go your merry ways.

You absolutely won't tell Mom. The monsters told you the story. You can fill in the blanks. You can imagine how she must have sat at that previous child's bedside, the fear and sadness she must have felt. You won't repeat that. You try out your voice today. It sounds like a baby dragon roar, if baby dragons were human-sized. It also hurts, but Undyne would probably think it was pretty cool and find some fun use for it. You spend most of the day in a pout at this missed opportunity, and grab the largest book from Mom's bookshelf to use as an excuse to curl up on the couch for the entire afternoon. Mom is excited that you want to learn more about snails. She settles down next to you to read the book aloud, which is pretty nice.

You refuse to tell Mom. It's getting harder. You know it would be harder for her. She pleaded with the last one to believe, to fight to get well, and that thankfully is one thing you've got in spades: determination. You let your body fight for all it's worth. One minute you are boiling in your skin, the next you are chilled to your core. The cold is infinitely worse. You can't hold in the shivering no matter how hard you try, and the rattling hurts your bones. Your whole body is sore by the mid-afternoon when the snow starts. This too becomes your ally. You grab a blanket to wear like a oversized robe and sit by the window, watching the snow fall. Monsters gather outside and dance wildly; it is the first time any of them have ever seen snow fall from the sky.

You can't tell Mom. She has never truly forgotten or healed from the first, and you can still do both of those. You drag yourself out of bed to the kitchen, fetch the oatmeal canister and hold it aloft until noticed. Mom likes the idea of something hot for breakfast on a cold day. You like the idea of something easy to swallow. She cheerfully uses her fire magic to whip up a large pot. Even with your nose as stuffed as it is, you breathe in the steam and can tell how creamy and delicious it must taste. It's a shame your taste buds don't corroborate. The newly arrived skeleton brothers explains why she made so much. Sans puts ketchup on his.

You physically won't be able to tell Mom soon. You can feel your throat closing in on itself. It's an odd combination of easier and worse. You wonder, sometimes, if raising you reminds her of previous times, previous family. It makes you wonder what you would have done in this scenario with your previous family. You don't want or know how to address this thought, so you head out to go sledding after breakfast. Mom thinks you look cold (you are), and somehow finds two coats for you to wear. They neither fit you well, nor together well. The smaller won't zip, and the larger barely zips over the smaller. This works to your advantage ten minutes later when you've finally reached the sledding hill and are once again boiling. You zip the outer coat open to cool off. Sans makes a pun about "really feeling the heat" ("...and it's coming from you kid, button up!"), but you swat his bony fingers away. He shrugs, and you take your first sled ride, all three of you together on the toboggan. It is exhilarating fun, though ends poorly with a chunk of ice or some compacted snow that sends your sled and selves tumbling. It hurts, it hurts, but Papyrus's indignant squawking gives you reason to smile and pick yourself back up. He scrambles back to the sled which is sticking straight up from the ground with a comatose Sans draped atop it. When he has it righted and Sans seated properly, though still rather limply, the taller brother races away with toboggan rope in hand, intent on conquering the hill. You follow, grateful for his Battle Body's large boots. They leave long indentations in the snow so you can follow in them and not work so hard. The gait is too wide, though, and you're puffing by the time you reach the top. Luckily, the second trip down is smooth sailing.

You start to wonder if you should have told Mom. She probably makes really good soup. The answer is ultimately no. You heard the story from the monsters, but you got the real story from The Monster. The first child knew. It was intentional, after all. You can fill in the blanks. You know that child faded as slowly, painfully as they could. It wouldn't have worked otherwise. You can't do that to her again, even if it's involuntary. Still, you feel guilty. How is fading quietly any better? You struggle to right yourself when the sled is pulled from under you. Papyrus's second set of footprints makes a dizzying puzzle to follow. The snow is white, the sky is grey. It is hard to distinguish the line where one becomes the other. You put one foot down. Then the other. Repeat. Everything hurts. Your legs don't want to be legs. You stop yourself before they can. Ahead, through the haze, is Sans's ever-present blue hoodie. You call out to him. He flinches at the wretchedly wrong sound. He turns, a question forming through the air, and you swear for a split second you catch a wisp of blue about him when his eyes widen in shock. Then you see white. Then you see black.

You don't want to tell Mom. What was it like to lose a child? You don't want to fathom it, though you understand fully well why two had been lost in the same night. Grief was a powerful force, not one to be reasoned with or calmed in its highest throes. There was no barrier to break anymore and no revenge to seek here. What would Mom do? Nothing but be heartbroken. Maybe her heart would actually break. There was movement now, and wind. You are curled in on yourself, the way you usually do when you sleep now that you have a warm, safe bed to return to each night. But the angle is wrong, and there's pressure in three points: two thin, hard supports under you knees and behind your shoulders, as well as a hard line of pressure that's steadily bumping against your temple. It's an uncomfortable though not entirely unfamiliar cradle. A jostle sends the rim of your eye socket that forms your eyebrow to slip down and settle into a empty space between two hard lines. Bones. Ribs? Your eyes choose this moment to recognize a triangle shape that's so close it's fuzzy: Papyrus. The bumpy motion is him running for all he's worth. You let him take you, feeling yourself boneless. The colors and temperature change so fast it's like a slap. The word oatmeal churns in your head, but a quick veto from your aching abdominal muscles kills any hope of retching. You hear Sans yell out, panicked, "TORI! The kid is doing too hot!!" It is followed by a faint pause and puzzled response of, "I do believe the popular expression is 'not doing too hot', is it not?" And then Mom sees you. You feel your face, flushed with what you both know isn't just the cold outside. She reaches out to touch you, and you crack.

You tell Mom. In great heaving sobs, garbled up equally by your scarred throat and the snot which is now pouring down your face, you tell her. She plucks you out of Papyrus's arms and sets you down. Your knees don't even attempt to take the weight, so you're lowered to plop on your bottom. In a flash she has your boots off and tugs off your two coats far faster than they were tugged on. You are grasped under the armpits again and lifted high, then hugged firmly to her bosom, snot and all. You cling. She moves for a bit, then bends. You are now sitting on her lap, and the world slowly starts rocking. She rubs your back up and down as you continue to babble. You wanted to tell her. You wanted her to worry. You thought you wanted to be strong for her, but what you really needed was her to be strong for you. You wanted to be weak, wanted to be taken care by the family you'd found and loved more than anything you'd ever known both over and under ground... Like a stream, all your woes (and nose) spill forward endlessly. It slows to a trickle. And then it stops. You peek up, sniffles and gunk, apprehensive of the face you'll find. You are greeted with nothing but a loving smile before a handkerchief obscures your face.

You confide in Mom a lot more now.


End file.
